The Beast Within
by zsra187
Summary: 'The Maester says it's a fever, though Sansa isn't so sure.' When Arya and her wolf return to Winterfell, Sansa finds herself at the mercy of her own animalistic urges.
1. Chapter 1

The Beast Within

Her blood is boiling.

Or at least, that's what it feels like. It rushes through her veins like wildfire, forcing tiny beads of perspiration through her skin to dampen the sheets. Her forehead is hot to the touch and her entire body is slick with sweat.

The maester says it's a fever. He makes her drink stewed yarrow and vinegar, and says that it'll pass with time. But that was four days ago, and as Sansa lies in bed - a thousand live vipers writhing in her stomach making her squirm deep into the mattress - she cannot help but think that she may die from this. Not from physical pain, for there is very little of that, but from the heaviness of her bones, the racing of her heart, the constant restlessness of her limbs and the searing, all-consuming _fire_ that devours her body from dawn til dusk.

Confined to her chamber, she suddenly finds herself unable to undertake the usual day-to-day responsibilities that would usually bring her such comfort. When anyone comes to her side, whether it be her maid who brings her hot soup or the towering master of her guard, she badgers them with questions. _Have the stonemasons finished the sept? Does the maester know which of the families in Winter Town have children that are sick? And what of their guest? Is she settled? Does she seem happy?_

Sometimes they give her answers, sometimes she cannot recall them. Mostly she remembers the feel of a cool cloth on her forehead and the gentle rasp of 'Hush, hush,' in her ear.

It is a kind of torture, being shut up like this. A different kind of cage from before, but no less painful. She longs to take a walk outside, just to relieve herself from the stuffy oppressiveness of her room but everyone tells her to rest. She only need pull up the heavy latch on the door for her maid to be on her like a hound smelling blood, taking her hands and guiding her gently back to her bed. She suspects he's put her up to it, although she can't be sure.

The frustration it builds within her is unlike anything she's ever felt before. Each time she finds herself thwarted by the maid or any other such creature, she feels the tears smother behind her eyelids. She flings herself onto the bed. She sweats, aches and cries. Sometimes she clenches her fists and pounds at the mattress, letting loose a little of the rage contained within her, but she desists soon after. She isn't a child anymore, and losing control over oneself like that isn't particularly ladylike.

However, it is her actions at night that cause her the most shame. When the light fades and the moon rises in the sky, she throws open her windows to the inky darkness and gulps in the frigid air. Some nights, like this night, she can hear a wolf howling in the distance. The sound of it stirs something deep inside of her and without thinking, her legs carry her back to her bed and she lies down upon it.

Every part of her aches. A sudden pang jolts in her belly, so deep and intense that she yearns to cry out, but stops herself. Someone might hear, but they mustn't come; she doesn't want anyone to witness this. Turning onto her stomach, she reaches for a pillow and nestles it between her legs. It's velvet, so soft against her thighs and she moans quietly into the pillow as her hips start to rock in a rhythm all their own.

Before the fever, the thought of taking her own pleasure had been one that had rarely occurred to her; she'd heard enough immodest tales from Myranda Royce at the Eyrie, but to even contemplate letting her hand drift into her small clothes would cause her cheeks to burn hot with embarrassment. But now her body seems to have taken control of her mind, for it's all she can think about. She rolls onto her back and lets her fingers explore, tries to keep to a gentle pace - a _respectable_ pace, one might say - but exhilaration spikes within her and it only takes a moment for them to slide down her body and in between her thighs.

Then it starts. It's an odd thing, but it's been happening more and more of late - mostly at night, and always at this particular moment when she stands on the top of the precipice, teetering over the edge, ready to jump into oblivion. As the pressure builds within her, she becomes _unlike_ herself. She becomes almost... wild. Her limbs force themselves into the most violent of gestures; her hands claw at the sheets, her hips rocking so furiously against the feather bed that she's sure someone must be able to hear the sound of her pleasure echoing through the stone walls. She wants to cry, to arch her back and scream out loud, and when she reaches the strongest, sharpest, sweetest moment of all, she feels the strangest inclination to howl. Instead, she gives a breathless shudder and falls back upon the mattress, peaceful. Sated.

Far away in the darkness, the wolf continues to howl and Sansa slides into sleep, blissfully unaware of a shadowy presence skulking outside her chamber. Small and sinewy, the shadow picks it's fingernails with a dagger while listening to the pleasured moans of the woman beyond the door. Finally, once the deed is done and the bed stops creaking, the shadow pushes itself from the wall and stalks away to leave its sister in peace.

* * *

A/N: Saw this prompt and it wouldn't leave me alone. Any and all feedback, including constructive criticism, is greatly appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

The Beast Within

Dark, billowing clouds obscure the stars and the moon. Sansa pads along the ground, stopping every so often to lift her head and examine her surroundings. The trees are thick here and their branches reach towards the night sky like spindly fingers. She must be deep in the heart of the wolfswood. Sometimes she catches a scent of something on the wind - something rich and metallic - and it makes her mouth water.

She carries on; picking her way over roots, dragging her fingernails over tree bark. She was always terrified of the wolfswood as a child, especially with the stories Old Nan used to tell. Now the wood feels like an old friend, welcoming her home. It's strange to her how natural it all feels, and yet somehow unnatural.

She has more strength now than she's had in days. She can feel the power in her limbs, her muscles taut and straining. They twitch with an eagerness to be put to the test.

There are memories; memories of frenzied yips and growls, of pumping blood and bared teeth. But that is all that they are: memories. Now the fever has disappeared, and a calmness has settled deep in her body.

A fierce wind rustles through the trees. She turns her nose to the sky - as if some invisible hand has taken her chin and pointed it upwards - just in time to watch the clouds blow apart and the moon appear as if from nowhere. The sight of it hanging fat and yellow in the darkness awakens something within.

She throws back her head and lets out a long, powerful howl. In the Great Keep at Winterfell, Sansa Stark wakes.

* * *

'Her ladyship is awake and feeling much better this morning,' the maid announces happily as she enters the bustle of the kitchen. 'I'll take her something to break her fast, if you please.'

The fat cook rolls her neck and shouts over her shoulder. ' Here Wylbar, I told you it'd be gone in less than a week. You can take that poxy kerchief off your face now.' The man named Wylbar looks around suspiciously and pulls off a thick cloth covering his mouth. The cook tuts and rolls her eyes.

Taking a seat on an upturned bucket, the maid holds out her hands for a breakfast tray as the cook busies herself with the pot. 'Honey and oats and warm milk please, Miri. You know how she likes it.'

'That I do. I've worked in this keep for near twenty years, you think I don't remember?'

The maid smiles. Miri seemed to be taking much umbrage lately to any suggestion that her memory might not be as good as it used to be. Suggestions that were made with good reason, the maid thinks. Miri's nearly fifty and closer to the grave than the crib.

'Every morning I made this for her, when she was a little 'un,' Miri continues. 'Every morning until they left. And I haven't forgotten, after all these years.'

'Alright, alright.' The maid rises to her feet eager to get going, but the cook isn't done reminiscing yet.

'And the other one,' she mutters darkly, as she mixes the oats furiously with one jangling arm. 'She was in here this morning before the castle was awake, creeping around and snatching a taste o' this and a taste o' that. Saw me watching her, but didn't say a word. Just sauntered off through the Hunter's Gate and out into the Wolfswood.'

The maid listens with interest, having heard a lot about their mysterious guest, but not yet caught a sight of her. 'What's she like?'

'Looks just like she did when she were little,' Miri sighs as she dollops a large ladle of oats into a bowl. 'Only bigger. Not as chatty though. A bit strange.'

Taking the tray in her arms, the maid turns to make her way up the staircase to the upper floors, pausing only slightly to catch the old cook's final musing.

'A pity,' she says to herself. 'Such a pity.'

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you to everyone who left a review on the last chapter, they were lovely to read! I realise that I gave absolutely no indication then of what this story was going to be about, which struck most of you as quite mysterious! Suffice to say, this _will_ be a Sansa/Sandor multi-chapter fic, based upon a prompt that was left at the Sansa_Sandor Community on Livejournal. I hope that's enough to satisfy some of your worries/curiosities for now! Again, thanks for reading and feedback is greatly appreciated :-)


	3. Chapter 3

**The Beast Within**

The sunlight that streams in through the windows falls right onto her bed. It warms the sheets, the mattress and anything that happens to lay in its path. Yesterday the heat would have been unbearable to her, and she would have spent all day with the heavy drapes pulled shut, cocooning herself in the dark in an effort to retain even the slightest coolness. But this morning, Sansa feels like she is born anew. From the very instance of opening her eyes, she knows that the pain of the past few days has left her.

'Glad to see you're feeling better milady.'

Sansa watches her maid shoulder through the door, her arms laden with a breakfast tray. 'I've brought you something to eat, if you have the strength.'

'I think I do,' Sansa answers with a small smile. She pulls herself up into a sitting position, noting the slight wobble in her arms as she does so; the weakness in her limbs hasn't quite left her yet. 'Thank you, Lanna.'

The meal is oats mixed with honey and a flagon of warm milk. The sight of it fills her with nostalgia; she used to eat this every morning to break her fast before she felt Winterfell, before she moved house and home to a place that was neither, a place that eventually became a prison. She grabs up a spoon and begins with eat with gusto.

'I've called Maester Ferron to come and look on you,' Lanna says as she fusses with the bed furs. 'Just to check that everything's so.'

Sansa shakes her head slightly as she shovels food into her mouth in a most unladylike manner. She is ravenous, having not eaten much but the maester's foul-tasting potion for near on a week. 'He needn't come, really. I feel much better.

'I don't think that'll stop him, my lady. He's under strict orders to take the utmost care of you.' The maid gives her a pointed look and Sansa sighs.

'Very well. I hope you all haven't been _too_ concerned about me.'

With the fever now abated, Sansa is almost hard-pressed to remember what being in the throes of it actually felt like. It is as though it has all been a dream; a wispy, surreal hallucination conjured from the depths of her imaginings. Now it has left her, she doesn't really understand what all the fuss was about. She feels perfectly fine; _more_ than fine, perhaps even stronger than before.

'Of course we were!' Lanna looks upon her with a wide-eyed expression. 'The Maester's been tearing his hair out wondering what was wrong with you! Well, if he had any hair to tear out that is,' she added as Sansa laughed. 'We've all been so worried...'

She trails off and turns away, busying herself with tying the curtains. There's something in the way she moves, awkward and hesitant, as though there is something on the tip of her tongue itching to be said but she cannot bring herself to say it.

'Lanna... what is it?'

The maid stills, but when she turned back to face Sansa she is wringing her hands. 'Oh, it's nothing.' She starts to pace from the window to the bed and back again. 'Nothing at all.'

'It is clearly not nothing!' Sansa exclaims, heaving the tray from her lap and leaning forward. 'Please, tell me what's troubling you.'

Lanna stops, gives a great huff and throws her hands up in the air. 'It's him, my lady. He has been so disagreeable as of late. Shouting and snarling at everyone! He stalks around the castle like a... like a... huge, dark... I can't think of the word, but you know what I mean. He frightens the servants! And I know it's only because he's...'

A knock on the door interrupts her tirade. Perhaps realising what she has done, Lanna claps her hands to her mouth, her cheeks red. 'Oh, my lady. I am so sorry! I didn't mean to complain so, especially to you. Please forgive my outburst.'

'There is nothing to forgive,' Sansa smiles gently at her. 'Now, let us answer the door. I suspect that may be Maester Ferron, and I have kept the poor man waiting long enough.'

Lanna bobs a curtsey and crosses to the door. 'Good morning Maester Ferron,' Sansa calls out as the door swings open. 'As you can see, I'm feeling perfectly well today.'

The voice that answers is rough and sends a shiver down her spine, just as it always has. 'That's good to know, little bird. But I'm no maester.'


	4. Chapter 4

**The Beast Within**

The little wolf bitch.

Just under a moon's turn she's been here and he's barely seen her, but that doesn't mean his blood doesn't boil with an uncontrollable, righteous anger every time he catches a whiff of her scent. Like an icy breath of wind, the girl moves unseen through the castle, leaving behind only hints of her presence; a smoking candle just blown out as he enters the hall, the sound of scraping metal in the dead of night, a hissing whisper of accusation that follows him down every corridor.

She is rarely caught sight of and heard even less. How she manages to get around without being glimpsed by the servants he'll never know; some trick she must have picked up in the free cities, or wherever in the bloody seven hells she's been since she left him for dead on the banks of the Trident**. **It puts him on edge; knowing she's here, but never being able to pinpoint exactly where. But no matter. He's never been one to shy away from a fight. If she tries anything he'll beat her bloody, to hell with the little bird's pleas.

He reaches for the strong wine and swallows down another gulp, this time careful to place the skin out of arms reach on the table. It would not do to get drunk tonight. Just enough to temper the anxious feeling twisting in his guts, but not enough to dull his senses. Living with the Lannisters he'd spent years trying to get the balance right, and now all it takes is two gods forsaken sisters - his divine saviour and his eternal torment - to snatch that control from his grasp.

Of all the things he didn't need, never thought bloody _possible_, the wolf girl striding through the gates of Winterfell without so much as a pleasant greeting would have been at the top of his list. But the bastard gods be thrice damned, it happened all the same. Only two things served to ease his pain: first, the girl seemed to spend most of her time in the Wolfswood rather than in the castle walls. Even when she did come into Winterfell, her strange way of turning to grey smoke meant that he never had to encounter her often. More importantly, he had the little bird. Her time split, he reflects bitterly, between himself and her sister, but he had her just the same.

And now this. The past week has been a whirlwind of anger and suffering he has not experienced in an age, and it's not as if Sandor Clegane wants for bad memories.

Helplessness is not a feeling to which he has been accustomed in recent years, not with a sword in his hand and an enemy to slay. But he cannot fight an invisible foe however much he rages and swears, and the sickness that rushes through the little birds veins, that sweats its way through her skin is as invisible as a warlock's spell. First she moaned; then swore, words coming out of her mouth that wouldn't sound out of place coming from an Oldtown whore. It was even worse when she cried. He'd take his sword and make his way to the Wolfswood, hacking at the first tree he saw until nothing was left but a huge heap of firewood fit for the woodpile. They tried to interrupt him once, but he sent the first man back to the castle less two of his teeth. No one bothered him again after that.

No one until now. An icy wind rustles through the hall, as though someone has suddenly slipped in through a door somewhere. He keeps his head down, and waits for the footsteps he knows will come.

There's a sound next to him, a shuffle, a step. He turns his head to see two yellow eyes, gleaming like gold coins in the darkness. Wolf's eyes.

Swearing under his breath, Sandor Clegane keeps incredibly still. How that beast has managed to get in here he hasn't the faintest idea, but one wrong move and the thing'll rip out his throat without so much as a growl for a warning. But curse him for an ugly bastard. His burned mouth twitches and the eyes snap to him, pulling a face into the light. Sharp, jutting cheekbones and a long face. Dark, dirty brown hair. Stark looks that some fool once mistook for his own.

'Cold in here,' she remarks quietly. 'Still too scared to light the fire, Hound?'

He ignores the slight. This is the first time they've spoken, just the two of them alone. She definitely sounds older, harder. 'Seems to me you're the one who's scared, wolf girl. Scampering round the castle in the dead of night. Trying to avoid me, are you?'

She moves into the candlelight proper. 'I'm not scared of you.' She's said the words before, years ago, only now she says them with such confidence he finds it hard not to believe her.

'I would be if I were you.' Sandor leans forward, shooting her a murderous glare. 'You left me for dead on the green fork, girl. Only, I wasn't quite dead, was I?' He twists his mouth into a gruesome smile, well aware of the terrifying fissures the candlelight will cast upon the ruin of his face. 'Let me give you a piece of advice. The next time you leave someone for dead, make sure they're _really_ dead.' He brings up his hands to gesture at his surroundings. 'Otherwise, you never know where they might appear again. Unfortunate for you it seems, but quite the luck for your pretty sister.'

There's a brief flash of anger behind her eyes, but it's gone almost as soon as it appears. 'Luck?' she retorts coolly. 'To have a sad old dog sniffing around her skirts? That's not what I'd call luck.'

'Depends on who you ask, wolf girl.'

'I wouldn't ask anyone around here if I were you. They haven't forgotten who you truly are. Joffrey's dog. A hired killer for the Lannisters. They hate you,' she finishes with relish.

Bugger this. He reaches over to grab the wine skin and takes a long pull. 'You think I care whether any of these bloody fools like me?'

'You should. You live here now.' He can't tell if she sounds bitter or not. Angry probably, that he's made a home here in her precious Winterfell.

He glares at her. 'So do you. Don't you want to know what they say about _you_ girl?'

'I don't care.' Finally, she sounds like the angry, sullen child he remembers.

Here's an opportunity to twist the knife in, tell her what they all really think about her. The servants, the townsfolk, her old friends. He snatches it up greedily with both hands. 'They say you're a killer,' he says. 'Rumour came up from the docks at White Harbour and followed you all the way here. They say you're the Stranger made flesh.' He snorts into his wine. 'Men used to say that about me.'

'They say you've come back for vengeance,' he continues, watching as she clenches her fists in fury. 'But you don't care against whom. Northmen, Rivermen, Westermen... no man, woman or child is safe from your wrath. So they may hate me child, but they're afraid of you.'

'You're a liar!' Her voice rings out accusingly.

'I'm no liar,' he growls. 'Any more than you're the Stranger.' _Superstitious northern fools_. He'd heard their whispers from the moment he stepped through the gate; they avoided him like the bloody flux. When the girl and her wolf returned they became just as wary, but once the rumours reached the castle, their caution turned to fear.

'Where's that unnatural beast of yours?'

'Hunting. She'll be back at dawn.'

He scowls at her. Bloody thing's supposed to be kept on a tight leash. Sansa couldn't bear to have it around some days; he'd heard her sobbing the night her sister rode through the gates of Winterfell with the humungous creature snarling at her heels.

'You'd best find it before I do,' he warns her. 'Or the thing'll find itself chained up in the Godswood.'

'You can try. She'll snap your neck in two.'

'Well might be I won't chain her up.' He pats the knife at his side. 'Perhaps I'll make myself a nice wolf pelt to help me get through the winter. I could give it to your sister,' he taunts, 'to warm her at night. She'll thank me for it, I'm sure.' His mouth twists into a smile before he remembers the little bird isn't even conscious. _And she won't thank me for a wolf pelt._

'Shut up. You know nothing about my sister,' the girl snarls back at him. 'She's a Stark. She had her own wolf before you killed it.'

'Wasn't me that killed the wolf, girl. I did for your butchers boy, yes. Are you surprised I remember?' He chuckles darkly. 'Twas your own bloody father killed that wolf, not me.'

'She still hates you for it.' She spits the words with such venom that he finds them cutting into his skin. Can it be true? She can't hate him for the wolf, but for the other things... yes, the other things...

'You know nothing, girl. She doesn't hate me. Gave me a nice warm welcome here, which is more than I can say for what she gave you.'

'I've told her what you did to me. That you kidnapped me,' she says. 'I've told her to get rid of you.'

_The fucking little she-wolf_. All he needs is for Sansa's bleeding-heart to take advantage of her, as it was wont to do. He'd be out on his arse quicker than a whore can pull down her smallclothes. He tries to tamp down his anger, lest he do something he might later regret. 'Might be she needs me.'

'She's never needed you,' she spits at him. 'You let them beat her in Kings Landing, you told me. You _let_ them! You can't protect her. You're as useless as a limp cock.'

Quick as a cat she might be, but he still manages to surprise her. In a second he's on his feet, grabbing her by the throat and slamming her thin body against the wall with a roar. The Elder Brother would have had his head for that if he were here, but Sandor doesn't worry about that now and neither does she. The strange thing doesn't even try to defend herself. Rather she smiles and her eyes gleam. 'Shut up you little bitch,' he hisses with rage.

A cackle of laughter bubbles in her throat. The sound bounces off the stone walls and echoes all the way through the empty great hall, as if a thousand Arya Starks surround him.

'What do you want here, girl?' He squeezes iron fingers around her neck. 'Have you come back just to haunt her, is that the way of it?'

She laughs again and he hears the soft sound of a dagger being unsheathed. The prick of it digs in just below his ribs, ready to be thrust upward into his chest.

'Do you remember where the heart is, you sack of shit?'

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A/N: Thanks for reading. Feedback is greatly appreciated!


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